


Adam Jensen, Coffee God

by Drake



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake/pseuds/Drake
Summary: Adam's coffee-drinking habits are a little excessive. TF29 gets audited, and the coffee supply gets cut off.





	

 

After martial law and the curfew was lifted, as the city began to settle (not calm, there was too much vitriol and fear for calm), the Task Force 29 office only became more frenzied. Agents rushed around each other, bumping hips on desk corners as they hurried to file reports, close cases, fill details, and track loose ends. They'd gotten closer to pinning down the Dvali for the London almost-attacks, nearly ready to raid them and put them down for good. They'd started work on shutting down ARC, on interrogating Marchenko (who they quietly took from London's division, away from all media and public eyes).

 

Adam spent the days (and nights – he could run on less sleep) in his corner, working at his computer, attending the myriad of debriefings thrown at him now that the immediate threat of terrorism had gone down – Dubai, Ruzicka, GARM, London. Debrief after debrief, and in between, writing the mission reports Macready had been hounding him about. Coffee was his go-to liquid in times like this – he'd gotten used to crunch nights back when he was a cop – and he always had a cup on his desk.

 

The trouble was that he tended to forget about it until the coffee was stone-cold. He'd take a single disgusting sip and put the cup down, frowning. Normally that would be the end of it – he'd have to go get another cup and continue. But he'd had just enough hours awake that he thought, hey, why not put his superheated nano-blade aug to good use? He could channel the heat to his hands, warm up the cup and his coffee, and not have to walk all the way downstairs to the machine. Win-win.

 

Except he couldn't feel the mug, so he had no clue when the coffee could be considered warm. Thought he should probably taste it, see if it worked. He put the cup up to his lips, immediately yanked it back, and noticed that the coffee was bubbling. Lips seared, he grumbled as he slammed the cup back down. Now that it was boiling, he'd have to wait for it to cool again.

 

He waited too long.

 

This happened a few times, before he gave up and got a new cup of coffee. By the time Miller had come back the next morning, Adam had six half-full mugs of cold coffee on his desk, and was glaring at every email pinging into his inbox. Miller said nothing, didn't even greet him, and went on his rounds on his way to his own office.

 

An email pinged to the entire Prague office a few minutes later.

 

 

> **From:** Jim Miller
> 
> **To:** all
> 
> **Subject:** Coffee machine etiquette
> 
>  
> 
> This is a reminder to reuse your damn coffee mugs. We don't have the budget to buy each agent seven mugs. Wash it out and refill it.
> 
>  
> 
> -Miller

 

Adam snorted, stepped back and took a picture of the email, with his six cups in the frame. Didn’t notice that his whiteboard was in the frame, the scrawled “Aug is here ->” just in the corner of the image. Emailed it to Malik, with the subject, “I wonder who this email was referring to?”

 

It's three or four AM in the states, but he gets a reply immediately. “And here I thought office sabotage to get out of paperwork was above you, spyboy. You trying to deprive your colleagues of coffee?”  

 

He double checks what time it is in Detroit, because he didn’t expect her to respond. “Everything is fair in the world of espionage. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

 

Her reply is a photo of the cockpit of her VTOL, prepped and ready to go, a passenger list that includes Sarif on it. “Duty calls” is the subject. He snorts, leaves her to it. Settles back to his work. Gets more coffee.

 

The crunch continues. His days are punctuated only by the emails he and Malik exchange. She asks if he got her gift, so he starts sending her pictures of the tiny VTOL around Prague.  One at the VersaLife ad by the metro. From the cafe balcony by his apartment. On the metro, in his hand, in the naturals car, where they stare at him with disgust and fear (he gets away with it, on his permit, so he figures he should push the envelope as far as he can, when he can). On the giant rock suspended over the intersection (he may or may not have icarus dashed up there to put it on the boulder, and then had to send three separate images, each zoomed more than the last, until the VTOL is visible).

 

The coffee pot at TF29 starts to be empty more often than it is full.

 

Miller sends another email.

 

 

> **From:** Jim Miller
> 
> **To:** all
> 
> **Subject:** Coffee rations.
> 
>  
> 
> I just had to field a phone call from Joseph Manderely about an audit on our finances because a ‘suspiciously large’ amount of money is being filed as ‘coffee’. There is suspicion of fraud.
> 
>  
> 
> Please stop drinking so much of it.
> 
>  
> 
> -Miller

 

Adam sends Malik a picture of this one, too. There’s more cups on his desk, some still part-full. The whiteboard remains un-erased. He can’t really bother. Figures someone would rewrite it the moment he takes it down, the moment he even seems to let it bother him. He couldn’t care less of what they think of him, as long as the job gets done and they track down the terrorists.

 

It takes a few hours until he gets a reply. “Sorry, lots of turbulence. Look at what your sabotage has cost you. Now you’re cut off from your lifeblood.” He thinks she’s laughing, hopes that she is. That she isn’t trapped in a fog, drowning but cutting herself off from others, staying apart to keep them safe. To keep herself safe. Like he is.

 

“Time to give up on Interpol and learn to make coffee from air.” His reply is sent and he rubs at his eyes, aug eyes that may not feel tired the way his organic eyes used to, but it’s an old habit. An old comfort.

 

Not a day later, Adam gets a panicked call from Chang. Demands he go up to the storefront immediately, and that they’d been compromised. Adam sighs, tries to say that the Samizdat issue had been solved, but Chang won’t let him get a word in edgewise, so he goes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he rides the elevator up past the identifying lasers. Idly wonders what would happen if a not-agent rode the elevator down. Would the lasers fry them? Or the turret at the bottom?

 

Marcie is standing in the hallway, looking stressed. She jumps when he arrives. “Agent Jensen! Its..we have an issue.” Adam’s tense, searching for danger, but she gestures at a giant crate. A crate in the middle of the shop. Adam frowns, steps forward. There’s a note attached to it - this is an industrial sized crate, mind you, the kind of thing he shoves around to get to vents, not the kind of box most shipping companies deal with.

 

It’s handwritten, stapled on with the serious kind of staples only found in warehouses.

 

To: Aug.

 

Hey spyboy. I heard you were having a coffee shortage? Sounds like your friends at TF29 could use some more caffeine. Withdrawal makes you a bitch, I’ve heard.

 

-Flygirl

 

His eyes narrow at the addressee, and then he realizes that she must’ve seen the whiteboard by his desk. Sighs.

 

“I’ve called a bomb squad,” Marcie mentions helpfully. Adam groans.

 

“It’s not a bomb.”

 

“What else could it be? Why would anyone send something this large here? We don’t support oversized packages. And who’s ‘aug’?” She’s standing as far away from the crate as she can, while still being in the store. Adam quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Me, probably.” Doesn’t mention that spyboy is definitely him. That flygirl is, could only be, Faridah Malik.

 

The bomb squad arrives, and Marcie makes him stay while they scan it, then wrench it open with crowbars, to reveal a literal crate of coffee grounds. They’re not even packaged, just one huge pile in the crate. Adam snorts.

 

“I...what?” Marcie asks, faintly and in confusion.

 

“It’s a gift. To TF29.” Adam’s fighting a smile, settles for a smirk. “From a contact of mine, I guess.” Chang’s already calling him, probably frantic again, probably watching remotely from the cameras installed around the shop. Adam waves off the call.

 

“Well...if it’s not a bomb, I suppose you can take it down. How did they find this address?” she’s looking at him, suspicious.  Adam shrugs. Malik is resourceful - could have asked Pritchard for the information.

 

“Thanks, Marcie.” He hefts the crate up, leaves the lid on the floor, the bomb squad looking confused and defused, adrenaline rushing away with no outlet to spend it on. He drops it onto the elevator floor, swipes his access card. Starts the slow ride down again. He gets a few strange looks as he walks past the turret carrying a giant crate, and drops it by the coffee machine. Doesn’t notice he left the note on it. Starts a pot of coffee, fills his mug, goes back to his desk.

 

The smell of caffeine floats through the office, drawing agents, analysts, techs out of their laptops. It had been a full day since they’d run out of coffee, and it was clear that it had made many of them cranky.

 

The next time he goes back to his desk, the whiteboard has been erased. Where it used to say ‘Aug is here’, it now says ‘Coffee god is here’. Adam quirks an eyebrow at it, lips twitching. There’s another email a few minutes later.

 

 

> **From:** Jim Miller
> 
> **To:** all
> 
> **Subject:** Agency emails
> 
>  
> 
> This is a reminder that internal emails are restricted and for _internal use only._ Do not share agency emails with outside parties.
> 
>  
> 
> -Miller

 

Adam sends Malik that one, too.

  


**Author's Note:**

> An Adam who doesn't cut off his friends is a bit of a happier one, don't you think? c:


End file.
